


Dodging Specters

by LunaDeSangre



Series: Infinite Possibilities [10]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oz Magi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:03:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28795101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: Perhaps it was the tiny cell. Perhaps it was O'Reily's hand around his wrist. Or perhaps it actually goes much farther back, some sort of long slow slide Miguel simply hadn't noticed until then.Friendisn't quite the right word for it, though.
Relationships: Miguel Alvarez/Ryan O'Reily
Series: Infinite Possibilities [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/713241
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13
Collections: Oz Magi





	Dodging Specters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Titti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titti/gifts).



> Oz Magi 2020, Wish #10, Request 1:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Ryan/Miguel  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: The ghost of Christmas Future  
> Canon/AU/Either: canon or even better post canon  
> Special Requests: I'd rather have plot than smut, other than that do what you like.  
> Story/Art/Either: Story

They're back at Oz within three weeks.

Well, some of them: Miguel and O'Reily are, anyway, along with the rest of the guys evacuated straight from the infirmary and stuck in the closest loony bin (okay, the local _facility for the criminally insane_ , or whatever it's fucking called) ever since, two-per-tiny-padded-cell for the healthy ones (we're talking physical health here, obviously, or Miguel's sure he wouldn't have made the cut) and uncomfortable-looking cots messily lined in a small, cramped gym for the others.

They're not many, and even less so in Em City, which makes the place _really weird_ : it's been cleaned or decontaminated or something, all the furniture stacked neatly on one side when they arrive, everyone's shit in a tall pile of cardboard boxes next to it, labelled only with cell numbers or what room they were found in, and it still smells faintly of chemicals those first few days, gleaming ominously and echoing emptily with every little sound.

There's _eight_ of them in the whole thing. There's really very little sounds.

McManus' voice sounds extra loud when he greets them there (after Querns's had all of them, non-Em-City cons included but not infirmary patients, sit on the cafeteria benches for what must have been at least a full fifteen minutes, so he could loom over them from the podium and spout into the mike the same unsurprisingly unchanged threats) with a, _of course_ , extremely optimistic speech about getting everyone back here and making the whole place better than it's ever been. Almost all of them snort (even Murphy, leaning against the guards' station railing, looks amused), but you gotta hand it to McManus: he takes it in stride, not even looking fazed. How he somehow always keeps finding ways to hope for the best like that, Miguel has no idea.

But hey, he's not complaining: he knows he couldn't have stayed forever in that tiny padded cell, with only O'Reily for company for the rest of eternity.

Although that wouldn't have been a bad thing, really.

* * *

_That_ 's the other weird thing: O'Reily.

They hadn't been in the same vans—Miguel had only caught glimpses of the guy as they got all the patients out: he'd known O'Reily was around, what with their new shared shifts and all, but he'd been fucking high on those fucking D-tabs (and no, no, no, he's not going to think how he'd gotten them) and O'Reily had for some goddamn incomprehensible reason, been busy trying to take care of his complete asshole of a father. But they'd ended up in the same place, and after they'd been herded out (pushing, rolling or propping up their sick fucks to where they were pointed to), one van after another, they'd found themselves in a corridor, all the infirmary workers, and had been told to pick a friend—a fucking _friend!—_ because their new temporary quarters were going to feel very cramped, very fast.

And O'Reily had latched on to him.

Sure, before the whole mess with Cyril ending up on Death Row (and even after, if less often), they'd been sort-of-friendly. They'd talked—nothing significant, not most of the time, just idle chatter, pointless stories, just passing time, easily. (Although now that Miguel's thinking about it: perhaps _that_ was significant, the fact that it was easy, and nearly friendly.)

But Miguel'd never have been able to imagine finding himself with one of O'Reily's hands wrapping itself loosely around his left wrist, upon being directed they choose themselves a friend to be stuck with.

And he sure as fuck would never have expected to only feel _relief_ in response to _that_ —even as distantly, as foggily as he had.

* * *

Their tiny padded cell had had no windows. Just a plain old recessed light, high in the ceiling and protected by sturdy-looking thick glass, that became a very faint, very gloomy dark red at what was supposed to be _night_.

During the day, they'd been allowed back into the cramped gym to take care of their sick fucks the best they could with the help of a few of the loony bin's harried-looking staff, the doctors and nurses evacuated with them from Oz having disappeared after that first night (presumably back to their families). All bathroom trips had been accompanied, the showers supervised, and the meals either too early (breakfast) or too late (lunch and dinner), doubtlessly so they never crossed paths with the resident loonies. (Probably for the loonies's protection.)

It'd been a change to adapt to, but not necessarily a bad one, surprisingly.

Well, besides the lack of windows: even those tiny thick things you couldn't see out of back in Em City had been better than _nothing_. At least there'd been a little daylight there, to keep track of time (and remember the outside world existed, for all the good _that_ did).

But O'Reily had known the days, always.

And he'd always looked like he wished he didn't.

* * *

There's a sadness, now, clinging to O'Reily, following him around, like a shadow. And a kind of softness, that, if it'd been there before (before _Cyril's death_ ), must have been buried so deep only his brother may have ever seen it.

It had been there, too, in their tiny padded cell with them, and Miguel hadn't quite known what to do about it.

"Do you believe in redemption?" O'Reily had asked him one night, sitting against the far wall, legs to his chest, arms around his knees, chin on top.

Miguel had been lying smack in the middle of the padded floor, arms and legs spread, trying to touch all four corners and not missing by that much. He'd craned his head back to look at O'Reily upside down, then shuffled closer, still on his back, until he could half-lean sideways against the wall next to him, close enough to bump one knee against O'Reily's ankles and leave it there.

"I don't really know," he'd answered, slowly, honestly, weighting it through. And, thinking of Julie, thinking of Rivera: "But I _want to_."

O'Reily had only smiled a little, a tiny, barely-there helpless thing, gaze lost ahead of him in far more space that they'd had.

The curiosity had been too much: O'Reily never asked him deep stuff like this—usually, the heavy shit was Miguel's forte. "Why?" he'd inquired, unable _not_ to.

O'Reily had been silent a long, long time, worrying his lower lip, and Miguel had patiently waited him out, just looking at him. Watching him think.

"My father," O'Reily had finally whispered, still not looking at Miguel. "I can't figure out if he's...sincere, or just—"

"Just what?" Miguel had eventually prodded, softly, when he'd failed to continue.

"Using me," O'Reily had admitted in an exhale. "Saying what I want to hear just so he has someone taking care of him, and not meaning a fucking word of it."

Miguel hadn't quite known what to do with that either—this lost, defenseless look on O'Reily's face, this raw honesty. "Even old Scrooge redeemed himself," he'd said, eventually.

It had surprised a laugh out of O'Reily. Short, but a laugh all the same—honest and strikingly _free_. And for a few seconds, he'd looked back at Miguel with gratefulness in his eyes.

And Miguel had felt oddly protective of him.

And just...never quite stopped.

* * *

He thinks they may _both_ have gotten a little fucked up, locked together: Em City is weirdly empty, but O'Reily's eyes always seem to keep track of him.

Just like he always keeps track of O'Reily.

Perhaps it was the tiny cell. Perhaps it was O'Reily's hand around his wrist. Or perhaps it actually goes much farther back, some sort of long slow slide Miguel simply hadn't noticed until then.

 _Friend_ isn't quite the right word for it, though.

It's more like a _need_.

Or finally having a magnetic center to balance himself around.

Or _with_.

* * *

O'Reily has very bony shoulders. Miguel had found this out leaning with him against the far wall, on another long red-lit stretch of supposed-night time: in companionable silence, at some point, for no particular reason, he'd plonked sideways against him—and promptly regretted it, because _Owww_.

He hadn't moved away, though. "Do you _eat_?" he'd asked instead, possibly sounding a strange mix of lethargically incredulous, sort-of-concerned, and vaguely offended. (He hadn't been too sure what he was feeling: he'd still been trying not to _think_.)

O'Reily had huffed something close to a laugh, in more tired and blank. "'Course I eat, idiot," he'd answered, at not even a third of his old sarcasm. "I'm alive, aren't I?" And that had been quiet—an horridly charged whisper. Like it had just escaped, irony gone horribly wrong, far too true and far too real once it was out.

Like he hadn't been sure that was a good thing.

Or like he hadn't been able to figure out why he was—why he even bothered to be.

Miguel _distinctly_ remembers that moment: he'd mostly been floating around, before this, going this way and that with the tide, following O'Reily, the new staff and hacks, going where he was pointed to, doing what he was told, entertaining himself with little distractions (mostly O'Reily), and actively _not thinking_. But _this_ , that, there, that was the point he'd felt something _extremely_ distinct. Something completely unavoidable—something he didn't _want_ to avoid, too urgent and too big, with too disastrous consequences if skipped over or ignored: he'd felt _alarmed_.

(Like O'Reily had been dangling over a cliff edge, Miguel's grip on his arm the only thing keeping him up there, Death down below, beckoning and inviting and welcoming, and O'Reily had wanted to let go. Fall and have it all finally over—blissful oblivion. And Miguel had though: _Fuck,_ ** _NO_**.)

He hadn't fucking known what to say. (How do you make someone want to live? And why the fucking hell is it easier to know how to kill than _how to save a life?_ ) He'd stayed there mutely against O'Reily's side, against his bony shoulder, having to swallow harshly to not imagine him dead.

"Well," he'd said, eventually, voice rough even to his own ears, "you need to eat more. You're all bony and shit. That ain't healthy, you know?"

There'd been a tired, wry huff again. "If we ever get pizza," O'Reily had drawled, sounding a little more like himself (but only a little), head rolling slightly against the padded wall to throw Miguel a tired, but vaguely amused glance, "I promise to eat your share as well as mine, chiquito."

Miguel had been surprised into a little almost-laugh, too. "That the food you miss most," he'd then asked, glad for the diversion, "Pizza?"

O'Reily had shrugged—but gently, mostly with his other shoulder. Not dislodging Miguel. _Purposely so_. "Not really," he'd answered, "honestly, I like fresh fruits better than pizza."

And so, their very next breakfast, Miguel had stolen an orange for him, and then snuck an extra little plastic cup of industrial fruit salad on his tray at lunch, for lack of a better option, and O'Reily had given him a smile for the orange, and a grimace for the canned mystery fruits, but he'd eaten it all anyway.

Possibly, because Miguel has stolen them _just for him_ , and had completely unabashedly told him so. And maybe because O'Reily had just been going with the flow too, following him right back so he wasn't all lost and alone either.

Whatever it had been, it had gotten them both back here: in Em City again, alive, and sort-of-together. Watching each other.

With Miguel trying to figure out how to continue his three-times-a-day fruit-stealing—even if it does nothing for O'Reily's bony shoulders.

* * *

Another thing he'd noticed, along their times spent leaning against that padded wall is: those extra inches of height O'Reily has on Miguel, they're _all_ in O'Reily's legs.

It had taken them sitting shoulder to bony-shoulder for him to see it though. Laying down next to him, all Miguel could really focus on was the look in his eyes, or the expression on his face.

Because even shadowed in sadness, O'Reily had always been worth looking at.

And _that_ hadn't been anything new—it just had been more striking from so close.

And more unavoidable.

* * *

Miguel had, possibly, taken a bit advantage of him: that very first night, coming down from his fucking high.

It was O'Reily's hand against his wrist, maybe. Miguel had already been coming down by then, for a few hours already. (Down and down and down and asked to pick a friend. _What_ friend? What the fuck _is_ a friend?) And O'Reily had been there, warm hand gentle on his wrist, looking just as lost as Miguel had been feeling.

And they'd been locked in a little padded room together.

And Miguel? Miguel had crashed all the way down. Had found himself huddled in a ball in a corner, shaking and mumbling and rocking, forehead to his knees, arms over his head, with zero awareness of time and way too much of space. The sheer _lack_ of it—on top of everything crashing into his head.

Guerra had dug his fucking fingernails into his arms, before he'd died (and maybe he had _purposely_ been given too much, maybe that had been Torquemada's plan, maybe Guerra had died because he'd made peace with Miguel, finally, at last, and because Miguel had attracted this fucking _freak_ somehow, and that freak had wanted him alone, had wanted him lonely, and desperate, and weak and lost, with no options and no one to turn to, the better to swoop in and pluck him up and _own him_. Because that was what he'd done, wasn't it? Did Guerra died just so Torquemada could move into Miguel's fucking pod?) and Miguel had huddled there fucking shaking trying not to do the same thing.

O'Reily had helped: he'd sat there close without touching (maybe afraid to set Miguel off?) and he'd talked and talked and talked, quiet and steady and constant, and after a while Miguel had been aware of him, and then more and more aware.

(He still can't quite remember what exactly O'Reily had been saying, but he has imaginings that he didn't have before: tall trees, leafy canopies and all manners of green, growing things, warm rain bouncing and rebounding and sliding on plants and rocks alike, damp warm soil you could sink your bare toes into. He has the impression that O'Reily simply sat next to him and rambled about jungles, in excruciating details, until those details penetrated the jittery fog and crushing darkness of Miguel's fucked up brain and _embedded_ themselves there.)

And then, O'Reily had been _all_ Miguel was aware of. All he could focus on.

And focused, he had—far too much: he'd zeroed in on O'Reily like a man lost at sea spotting a lifebuoy. Like a starving man in a dark desert—or in a rain forest. O'Reily had been everything: life and salvation. And Miguel had unfolded, rolled and pinned him down without thought, parted lips on O'Reily's equally parted ones (Had he been surprised? Gasping? Shocked?), chasing _everything_ —life, salvation, nourishment and light, but relief most of all—into O'Reily's warmth, just wanting to forget.

(Which in truth still doesn't make sense at all: Torquemada had never actually fucking touched him. Not _really_. Fingers in his mouth, yes, and trailing on his skin, and that had been disgusting enough, even through the haze he'd been in every time after the first, but never more than that. It had mostly been the memory of those eyes— _that_ dead eye, that other leering one—Miguel had been trying to forget. Had been trying to drown out. That fucking stare that still sticks, even more than the phantom fingers that still fucking try to haunt him, every time he's alone for too long.)

He'd stolen a fucking kiss, really, open-mouthed and long and deep. And O'Reily just...hadn't pushed him away. So Miguel hadn't stopped.

Hadn't stopped at all.

Not with a warm body underneath his, not fighting him: he'd kissed and nibbled and kissed, and touched and caressed and stroked, clothes and skin and more skin. _Warmth_. Warm and _there_ and pliant, with another (rapid) heartbeat that wasn't his own, another's (too fast) hot breath mingling with his: he doesn't know how he could have ever stopped himself.

O'Reily hadn't exactly laid there like a dead fish, but he hadn't _quite_ participated, either, even if he _had_ responded. Clung a little, fingers clenched in the sides of Miguel's scrub shirt as Miguel kissed him and kissed him and hiked up the one _he_ 'd been wearing to get at his skin. Tiny little movements of his tongue, sort-of kissing back, or sort-of trying to escape, a possibly-involuntary, almost imperceptible upward arch of his hips, or two, maybe trying to throw Miguel off, maybe trying to get him closer, when Miguel had slightly tugged at his hair and nibbled at his throat.

Like he couldn't decide: _Get off me_ or _Get me off_. Like maybe, possibly, somehow, it had been easier to let Miguel decide for him.

(Or maybe Miguel is reading too much into it.)

He'd gotten them both off that way— _Miguel_ —like fucking touch-starved teenagers, in their scrub pants: legs tangled, just pressed together, his lips, hands and whole weight on O'Reily's long, warm, unresisting body. It had been sweet and _so warm_ and fucking wonderful, and Miguel still hadn't really stopped then (though he'd eventually smoothly slipped to rest against O'Reily's side), kissing and caressing, opened-lips and opened-palms, slower and softer, until they'd both fallen asleep.

But even if he hadn't let himself think about it at the time, it had been completely unclear even then whether O'Reily had been willing or not. And Miguel still doesn't know.

* * *

In Miguel's defense, he hadn't kissed him again—though not for lack of wanting to.

But that first morning in their little padded cell, he'd woken up with O'Reily in his arms, curled against him in a form far smaller than Miguel could have ever thought possible for a guy this tall, with his face tucked in the crook of Miguel's neck and his fingers still loosely clutching Miguel's shirt, from the front this time. He'd been dead to the world, breathing deep and steady (hot against Miguel's skin), one of Miguel's hands tucked into his waistband, just resting on his naked waist (Miguel's other arm had been squished under him, and feeling slightly cut-off from the rest of Miguel's body).

And there'd been tear-tracks on his face.

Near-invisible, but there all the same.

He'd opened reddened, fucking _vulnerable_ eyes, a sad greyish-green in the supposed-day light, looking back at Miguel from less than an inch away, _from Miguel's arms_ , not moving, and Miguel had just stared at him, mute and reeling. Not wanting to move.

And three fucking seconds later, a fucking hack had banged on their fucking door, then thrown it opened wide: there had been yells about breakfast and forming a line. O'Reily had avoided his eyes and escaped in the corridor, and Miguel had had no choice but to follow.

At lunch, O'Reily had been his new-normal quiet self again, no hint of the morning—or the night—in his eyes, and Miguel had just been left unsure and lost.

Still wanting to kiss him, but never daring to.

So he'd told himself if _O'Reily_ wanted to, he'd start something. And he'd gone with the flow. Even if the flow had meant no more kissing.

Just keeping close, keeping track, being quiet, unobtrusive and aware. O'Reily had busied himself with his father, that first day and then all the others, but he'd always had eyes for Miguel—little smiles from across the cramped gym, if Miguel had perhaps looked a bit too fidgety, quietly stepping into his space and then standing there, close, warm and solid, steadily holding his gaze, if he'd truly felt like he'd been spinning out. Grounding him, without being asked.

(O'Reily's _father_ , on the other hand, had always seemed to reserve, _just for Miguel_ , the kind of dangerously nasty looks only someone who's lived his whole fucking life with sheer, undiluted, thoughtless bigoted hatred can be capable of, every fucking time his son's back was turned. Miguel hadn't even ever fucking interacted with the guy at all. It had made him wonder how the fuck O'Reily could even be that fucker's son. And it had made him _wary_.)

The further apart they'd have been able to get, if they'd actually been trying to, would have been the opposite corners of that cramped gym (Miguel's not going to count the bathroom breaks, because it had made him feel like a fucking child, to have a fucking bathroom escort: if he _had_ wanted privacy, that wouldn't have done it). It had been work together, walk together, eat together, shower together (well, along with eight other guys, on a fucking chronometer, and Miguel would have been far too busy watching both their backs to even think about _looking_ , even if not doing so hadn't already been fucking ingrained into him, after those years in Oz), and sleep together. Next to each other.

With no more kissing—but in the red light, back in the slightly-less-claustrophobic safety of their little padded cell, every night, Miguel had always ended up staring silently at O'Reily's closed eyes, from barely an arm's length away, and had always, eventually, _inevitably_ , crept closer.

And every night, O'Reily had clung to him in his sleep.

* * *

It's weird, sleeping alone, separately, with all that glass and space between them. Miguel's never realized, before, how big Em-City is. How fucking far away O'Reily's pod is from his.

But he notices _now_. Locked on his own— _entirely on his own_ —back in his fucking fishbowl, he can do nothing but _notice_.

The first night back, he can't sleep at all.

In the morning, after count, when they've drifted quickly and silently together like a pair of magnets, searching looks their only exchange, and started down the stairs in wordless synchronicity, he can only think that O'Reily doesn't look like he has either.

And that he very badly wants to sleep next to him again.

What O'Reily wants though, he still has no idea.

* * *

On that first morning, after they've all sat in the cafeteria with a weird, cardboard-cereals-only breakfast served by two hacks (looking extra-grumpy behind the kitchen counter as they respectively ladle it and the watery milk out), McManus organizes them into different shifts.

Apparently, they're the only ones back for now—just the forty or so guys who'd been on bedpan-cleanings shifts plus every unlucky fuck stuck in the infirmary at the time—and that means they have to be divided and temporarily reassigned to keep the place functioning until fucking transport is arranged to get the rest of Em-city back. Point of which there'll be more reassignments, and so on in stages, with every new (old) batch of cons coming back from wherever they've all been scattered.

Well, McManus goes into more details, for transparency and the good of their little slice of purgatory and all, but that's the gist of it.

Next to him, O'Reily has tensed. Miguel tenses, too, automatically: if O'Reily's worried about something, _he_ 's worried about something. (Fuck if he knows _what_ , though. Maybe they _have_ been stuck together for too long.)

He doesn't have to tense overly long for himself though (the joys of having a name that starts with an _A_ ): "Miguel," McManus says, "you don't change, you're still on infirmary duty."

O'Reily gives him a sideway glance that's hard to read, but that possibly has something a bit lost in those eyes. And McManus follows it up with: "You can go right now if you're finished, they'll give you a new uniform there."

But _yeah_ , no. Miguel pretends to enjoy his watery cardboard (it's _disgusting_ , and O'Reily hasn't even touched his, even though they've had to skip lunch the day before to be transported and only got a crappy little tray of soggy meatballs-and-puree for dinner, while already locked in their pods, with no fucking dessert), and dawdles until he hears what O'Reily gets.

Back on kitchen duty. "For now," McManus insists, as O'Reily visibly sighs, "and since you're the only one with any experience there, I'm putting you in charge of the food prep as well as inventory."

O'Reily nods, not too pleased but not that put-out either, in what Miguel recognizes as that now-familiar (but still relatively new), quiet way of his. McManus (and behind him, to one side, Murphy, who's been escorting and herding the tiny Em-city group of them) raises both eyebrows at the easy acquiescence.

Then McManus moves on to O'Reily's old man (apparently finally deemed well-enough to be released from the infirmary and back to his old cell this very morning, and currently ignoring Miguel's very existence from O'Reily's other side—though that didn't stop him from giving Miguel a nasty glare when he followed O'Reily to this table and sat right next to him with his tray), who does _not_ take his temporary affectation well: "What _the fuck_ ," he snarls, "I work in the mailroom, I ain't gonna fucking mop the fucking corridors!"

Murphy has straightened and narrowed his eyes to the side, ready for trouble. O'Reily tries to put a hand on his father's forearm, gets abruptly shrugged off, and quietly hisses " _Dad_."

"The mailroom isn't operational yet," McManus is explaining, "but the plan is to get it working again as soon as we get at least the rest of Em-City back here, which we're working on right now. And when we do, Seamus, I can already tell you that since you're the only one of the old team that's still there, you're going to be the one in charge—provided you don't cause trouble until then."

The old man settles down with a grumble.

 _But_.

Miguel sees it coming, right in the corner of his eyes: O'Reily looks back at McManus, and Miguel knows _exactly_ what he's going to say before he opens his mouth.

"Couldn't he just work with me in the kitchen until then?" he asks, and that's the well-practiced good-boy face Miguel's seen him use before to get his way, only _not_ : from this close, with all the time Miguel's spent locked with him, all Miguel's seen of him, it's completely impossible to miss the fact that this time it's fucking genuine. "Supervising all the food prep plus inventory, it's a lot of work, I'll be more effective with the help of someone I can trust."

Make that _painfully_ fucking genuine: because O'Reily's not naive, not back a long shot, but this fucking tendency of his to always somehow _hope_...Miguel's sure it's going to fucking kill him. The Doc was one thing, his brother another—and while it may have paid off with his mother (whom Miguel still thinks is a rather amazing and lovely lady), there is no fucking way his father is as changed as O'Reily wants to believe.

McManus _visibly_ flounders, staring disbelievingly at O'Reily's face. He drops his gaze to his notes, frowns, looks back up at O'Reily with both eyebrows high on his forehead: "If you're sure...?"

"I am," O'Reily answers, fucking instantly.

"All right then," McManus agrees, scribbling it down, "Seamus O'Reily, kitchen duty until further notice. You're answering to your son—and I don't want _any_ trouble _from either of you_ , that clear?"

"Crystal," O'Reily says, at the same time his father grunts " _Fine_." O'Reily throws him a look for a second (it's completely ignored) and adds: " _Thank you_."

"Right," McManus mumbles. He trades a pure _what-the-fucking-hell_ expression with Murphy that would probably have made Miguel laugh in different fucking circumstances, and moves down the alphabet.

"Can you get those fucking nuggets fried for a change?" Miguel jokingly asks O'Reily as he stands and picks up his tray, hoping for a little smile before he goes (off on his own for the first time in fucking forever—he doesn't fucking like the thought of not being able to watch O'Reily's back for even just their shifts. But if O'Reily works in the kitchen, maybe he'll steal fruits and other things for himself, and actually eat like he should, so there's a silver lining there, at least, even if Miguel doesn't fucking trust O'Reily's fucking father).

He kind of gets one: "I'll see what I can do," O'Reily answers, with a funny little smirkish tilt to his lips (those lips Miguel has kissed) and something softer in his eyes.

And what do you know: turns out, fried, with onions, _in fucking olive oil_ , with a helping of equally-fried-in-olive-oil potatoes _wedges_ , those fucking chicken nuggets taste almost decent.

The actual _laughter_ in O'Reily's ( _all green_ ) eyes, though, from over the counter, as Miguel fucking gapes at what O'Reily's been putting on his tray? Not even the best food in the world could equal it: it's something Miguel tucks into the mostly-empty and fucking tiny corner of his mind labelled _good things_ (along with the birth of his son and memories of Julie and of his escape, back when he thought he'd make it down to the end of the world).

* * *

This, too, is a new routine, more familiar and yet not quite right—both because of the silence and the lack of O'Reily next to him at night (or even just when he eats).

But Miguel does spend time with him, during the day, as much as their shifts and lockdown allow, playing checkers, watching TV, or sometimes just quietly sitting together.

The pile of boxes gets moved to the classroom, and apparently locked in, after they've all gotten their own stuff and someone's rescued the games and headphones from it. The tables and chairs roughly find their old places—and so do they.

Doctor Nathan, too, is back, like Father Ray and Sister Pete and the rest of the staff. She looks less tired and careworn than the last time Miguel's seen her, on that first morning, and gives Miguel a genuine, kindhearted smile, but she doesn't ask about O'Reily.

Miguel figures it's not his place to say, and goes on about his job like he used to.

And time passes.

* * *

On day six of the (less-weird) empty quiet, right after the (still-ridiculous) short count, Murphy informs them the rest of Em-City will be back the next morning. "So enjoy this last day of peace and quiet," he adds, in that deadpan way of his, "tomorrow night you'll have roomies again, and I, for one, sure hope you boys remember how to share!"

A few of the other guys scoff or snort: Murphy has to be the only hack in this place that can be this sort of casually funny while still inspiring respect, somehow never making anyone feel belittled or ridiculed, and maintaining a take-no-nonsense, yet still fair and approachable attitude that does more to make most of them feel like actual human beings than all of McManus's carefully-constructed, good-intentioned plans put together—and that Miguel thinks is perhaps even, on a day-to-day basis, more effective than Sister Pete's advices and Father Ray's sermons.

Miguel would have joined in, too—except it's just hit him: "Does that mean we'll be sharing with the same guys we were with before all this?" he asks slowly, as the words seem to slam together in his brain with a horrific sort of finality.

Because that points to...

_Torquemada._

And that's... No, no, no, _no_. Fuck _no_. Miguel can _not_ deal with that freak again. At all. _Ever_. If he has to spend even just one night locked with the guy _again_ , he'll end up on Death Row.

It's not even just a possibility: it's a goddamn _certainty_.

"Yeah," Murphy answers, eyebrows raised (Miguel supposes it _is_ a stupid question). And, considering him, not unkindly: "If you've got objections to that, Alvarez, you should take them to McManus."

Miguel has objections, alright: he runs _straight_ to the office in question, without waiting for an _ok_ or _go_ from Murphy—or even acknowledging O'Reily's searching eyes.

"I want to move in with O'Reily," he says as he barges in.

McManus, elbows deep in paperwork, looks up at him from behind his desk, expression annoyed—and slightly worried. Possibly, Miguel looks a bit too desperate.

Whatever. He _is_ desperate. Hell, if he has to, he'll even beg.

McManus throws down his pen, reclining back in his chair. "Can I ask why?" he, well, asks.

"I just don't wanna share a pod with Torquemada," Miguel answers sincerely.

That gets him raised eyebrows: "Why not?"

 _He put his fingers in my mouth_ , Miguel thinks instantly. Insanely. Silently. He can feel his own eyebrows knotting on his forehead. _And he fucking stared at me as he did—as he fucking put them in—with his fucking_ ** _eyes_**.

"Miguel," McManus asks, looking concerned now and leaning closer, "What has Torquemada done that makes you so desperate to not room with him?"

 _He put_ ** _his fingers_** _in_ ** _my mouth_** , Miguel thinks again, almost hysterically, _and he fucking stared at me_ ** _with his eyes_** _. With that fucking dead eye of his. I can still fucking see it—feel him, and_ ** _see it_**.

It's not like he can _say_ it—it's not like he will, ever. But it's there now, in his mind, right up front and center, unavoidable: nothing can make it fucking go away, and if Miguel comes face to face with the guy, he'll want nothing more than to slit his fucking throat.

And he can't do that: not only he'd end up on Death Row, but he'd leave O'Reily _alone_. Sure, there'll be the rest of the Irish, but would _they_ steal fruits just to make him fucking smile? And O'Reily's father...just rubs Miguel the wrong fucking way. There is _no way_ the old man can be trusted. _Least of all_ with his one remaining son.

"I just," he tries again, taking a deep breath, then another, "I just can't be locked in a pod with this guy again," he says slowly, calmly, looking at McManus with all the sincerity he can muster, gesturing in emphasis and possibly supplication. " _For his sake as well as mine_ ," he adds suddenly, heavily. "Can't you just accept it like that?" And yeah, he's begging. And completely unashamed of it, because this is far more important than any pride he may have left.

"I—Alright," McManus agrees, expression even _more_ concerned, "I suppose I can switch you with Meaney."

Miguel nods, breath whooshing out in relief.

But Meaney, from what little Miguel's ever known of him, has always seemed like a fairly decent guy: easy-going, unobstructive, and seemingly unfailingly loyal to O'Reily, even if Miguel had lost sight of how anything was standing between anyone the fucking second he'd _let Torquemada put his fucking fingers in his mouth and fucking stare at him like that_. And he wouldn't sic Torquemada on fucking anyone—least of all on a fairly decent guy that's potentially still loyal to O'Reily. (O'Reily might need that.)

"Shit, McManus, don't stick Meaney with Torquemada either," he finds himself saying.

"Right," McManus asks, back to slightly exasperated, "so who _should_ I stick Torquemada with, Miguel?"

"I don't fucking know," Miguel admits tiredly, "but not me, and not Meaney either."

He's left, closed the door, and taken a few steps down the stairs when it occurs to him that this is not enough: he scrambles back up and rushes back to McManus's office without knocking again.

"Someone he won't find fucking _attractive_ ," he spits, voice too damn raw and breathing too hard.

And then he really fucking leaves, because that's too much of an admission as to what Torquemada's possibly done to him, however slightly.

* * *

First evening in O'Reily's pod, he takes a chance: "Room for me up there?" he asks, coming close to where O'Reily is sitting on the top bunk with a well-thumbed magazine, occasionally sneaking peeks at where Miguel's been amusing himself balancing on the chair since they've been locked in for the night.

He's reasonably hoping for a _yes_ : he's gotten a warm, _real_ smile at lunch, when he informed O'Reily he was his new podmate as O'Reily dumped stir-fry veggies and fish sticks on his tray (which were cooked in olive oil again and surprisingly good, especially considering their usually dry-and-tasteless versions).

O'Reily's eyes stay fixed on his this time, looking a bit wide, and Miguel holds his breath a little.

Then O'Reily quietly says "Sure," with a tiny shrug, and scoots toward his pillow, making room besides him.

For Miguel to sit next to him. On his bunk. Where anyone who cares to look can see them. (Well, any of the six other guys and two hacks out there—but that's kind of irrelevant.) Part of Miguel doesn't quite believe it.

He doesn't let that stop him though, and firmly tells himself to not read too much into it, instead doing his best to not jostle the bed too much as he climbs up and settles close with his legs folded and his back to the wall, feeling O'Reily's body heat all along his side through the very little space left between them.

O'Reily throws him a little smile, warmth in his eyes, magazine opened in his lap, and Miguel thinks: _Fuck it_.

He leans right into O'Reily's shoulder (O'Reily's _still bony_ shoulder), leaving no space between them at all (just more warmth), and asks: "You eat, now, right?"

"I was eating before, too, you know," O'Reily answers, voice wry but fond somehow. There's a little smile on his face still, tugging at the corner of his mouth that Miguel can see. "But yeah, loco, I eat."

"Good," Miguel rumbles contentedly, nestling a bit more comfortably against his side (it's not an easy thing, between the small lumpy bunk and those sharp bones).

Which is perhaps a bit too fucking close to cuddling, even with Miguel keeping his arms for himself.

"So what's in your magazine?" he inquires, half to distract O'Reily from that thought, just in case, half out of genuine curiosity: he's been too busy trying not to stare at O'Reily to even just register the cover, earlier, besides the fact that it apparently features something green.

" _The Most Beautiful Forests in the World_ ," O'Reily intones in not-quite-mock reverence. He grabs his magazine again, closing it and holding it up so Miguel can see the cover, where a yellow title proclaims just that over a straight-up photo of long slender green trees covering up the whole sky, the sun a pale yellowish starry shape to the side, barely peeking through. "You wanna see?" he asks, looking back at Miguel, suddenly more animated and enthusiastic than Miguel's ever seen him (especially from so close, with his eyes so green).

" _Yeah_ ," Miguel breathes out, possibly staring at him a bit too wide-eyed.

Those _are_ fucking beautiful forests (probably doubly so because, before his escape, Miguel had never actually been to one): there's tall, perfectly-vertical trees, and thick, incredibly-gnarled ones, and even, on one page, a whole bunch all weirdly curved to the same direction. Foggy mountains and hills, covered in shades of green, sometimes with snow, and incredibly clear ones, in all the colors of fall, vast dark lakes reflecting cloudy skies occasionally in between, and one or two with water so blue they seem unreal. There's abrupt, dropping rocky cliffs, nothing but green foliage down below, and terrifying, tiny suspension bridges, and small winding pathways and little twisting rivers on grounds that seem to barely see daylight, among burnt-orange leaves, plush green moss, rich brown earth, or amazing yellow or purple flowers spread all over like some kind of colorful blanket.

What awes Miguel the most, though, is how _alive_ O'Reily is, in that moment: he has facts and stories for every single picture, and even eagerly tells Miguel where precisely all those forests are, how one can get there (there's an insane amount of walking, climbing, and kayaking) and what else there is to see in those countries. He doesn't read the text at all, pulling all those informations from that scary brain of his, sneaking little sideway glances at Miguel with eyes as green as his dream places.

He's more fascinating than them, really. Miguel has to tear his gaze away from his face far too often.

"Is this what you rambled to me about that one time," he teases, in an attempt to distract himself from O'Reily's beautifully-green eyes, when they get to a rainforest that looks strangely familiar—without _thinking_.

O'Reily freezes, and Miguel bites his lower lip, hard, from where he's still leaning against him. He supposes he's done the equivalent of poking the elephant in the fucking room. (Well, in the fucking pod.) _Great fucking going, Alvarez_.

But O'Reily doesn't even try to shrug him off, like Miguel realizes he's bracing himself for: he puts the magazine down, back on his lap, fingers fiddling with the edges a little, swallows a few times, then, without looking at Miguel: "Alvarez," he asks quietly, "why are you here?"

Which... If Miguel's being honest with himself, there's about a million answers to that question. He settles on the easy one: "I don't want to be Torquemada's—" _bitch_ "—podmate again. Asked McManus if I could move in with you instead. Everyone's back tomorrow, you know?"

Not his most coherent explanation (not his most _in_ coherent either), but O'Reily takes it, after a few beats of silence that have Miguel holding his breath.

" _Yeah_ ," O'Reily sighs, emphatically, making Miguel sigh with him, fucking relieved. And there's a definite undertone of amusement in O'Reily's voice when he adds: "Pancamo's gonna figure out I got into his olive oil stash."

Which is an obvious attempt at lightening up the mood a little—but it just gets Miguel worried again: "He ain't gonna give you trouble, right?"

"Nah," O'Reily answers, and this time he turns toward Miguel (his face, not his body— _not his shoulder_ , still not dislodging him) to offer him an actual smirk and twinkling green eyes, "I'm just a dumb mick, how was I supposed to know that shit was his? The last inventory sheet was _mysteriously_ missing, and, you know, those bottles were gathering dust behind cans of tomato sauce. Best-before date approaching and all. He shoulda found a better hiding spot, if he didn't want them found."

Miguel snorts in laughter: it's good to see the old O'Reily's still in there—in slightly softer.

"Besides," O'Reily goes on, handsome face the perfect picture of squeaky-clean innocence, "I've had to make do with what we have—fucking Querns won't let us place a new order until everyone's back, as long as we still have food."

"Awww," Miguel delightedly drawls back, "so no pizzas yet, uh?"

"Sadly no," O'Reily answers in half-mock consternation, "unless of course, Pancamo is more persuasive than I am, and feeling fucking generous."

Miguel snickers in uncomplicated, raw happiness against his side, making them both shake with the simple—and yet so impossibly-unattainable, in this place—joy of a real, warm, harmless shared laughter.

"I think I might ask McManus to let me stay in the kitchen," O'Reily continues eventually, after a while. "I seriously underestimated how fucking easier it is, to know what's in the damn food. And Dad likes it here too," he adds, far more feebly, gaze dropping to his lap, "but I don't think he could work with the usual crew," he jests a bit weakly.

 _So you're just gonna stay there so you can grab stuff for him_ , Miguel thinks, but doesn't say, opting to remain a quiet and hopefully warmly-supportive presence at his side instead.

"Is Torquemada gonna be a problem?" O'Reily asks, after a few beats of this comforting, shared silence, looking sideways at him. His voice is soft and hushed—but there's _steel_ in his eyes.

Miguel lets out a long, slow breath, and allows one of his hands to wander to O'Reily's nearest folded knee, and rub soothingly, gentling that cold, dangerous look slightly. "Only if he comes after me," he says, truthfully. "Or _you_."

 _Us_ , he thinks.

He hasn't dared say it, but: "Alright," O'Reily whispers, eyes closing on a sigh that seems to release all that tightly-coiled deadliness from his body, "We'll see how it goes. He got just about anyone high, anyway, didn't he? I doubt you're the only one that's sobered up and doesn't want to play anymore." A tiny, wry ghost of a smirk, and: "Good old Chucky might even solve the problem for us."

And that gets Miguel to fucking melt in complete fucking relief against his bony shoulder somehow: _this_ , he realizes, is more promise than Miguel could have ever hoped for from _anyone_ —in here _and out_.

* * *

"D'you want me to say hi to your Doctor Nathan for you?" Miguel asks—a bit hesitantly—the next morning, before O'Reily leaves to make breakfast.

He doesn't want to push: he just wants to see what's up. It's kinda weird, that O'Reily hasn't asked about her once, the entire week they've been back.

O'Reily looks hesitant, too. With a worryingly-large dash of guilt in his eyes, before his gaze scuttles to the floor.

Miguel waits, sitting up on his bunk in concern, but O'Reily just opens his mouth for a breath, closes it, shakes his head and leaves.

He does throw Miguel a little see-you-later smile through the glass before he disappears from view, but it's a weak, sad guilty thing.

They have Pancamo-worthy bland rice-with-tiny-mystery-meat-chunks for lunch and equally uninspired beans-and-possibly-chicken casserole for dinner, and O'Reily is nowhere on the line. Miguel inwardly frets about him all day, barely even noticing the rest of Em-City has come back sometimes in the afternoon (he does exchange a few friendly words with Rebadow, Busmalis and Beecher, and nods at Meaney from a distance, but mostly that's just more people O'Reily could be hiding amongst but is _not_ )—until O'Reily finally reappears, just in time for them to be locked together for the night.

"Everything alright?" Miguel asks him, "Haven't seen you all day. Pancamo not giving you trouble over his fucking olive oil, is he?" he tries to joke.

"What?" O'Reily replies distractedly, "no, he hasn't even been to the kitchen yet, they're not starting work until tomorrow." He's fidgety, busying himself at his trunk, then at the sink, not looking at Miguel. "Oh," he adds, spreading toothpaste on his toothbrush and still looking slightly _off_ , "I talked to McManus, and I'm gonna keep working in the kitchen like I used to. Good old inventory and all."

"That's good," Miguel agrees, dragging the chair to the glass, in roughly the middle of the pod, and straddling it backward, facing the quad, giving him privacy. "At least there I know you'll eat."

There's a little snort behind him, before O'Reily starts brushing his teeth—with what sounds like a bit too much force.

Really, Miguel's fucking worried. But it doesn't take a genius to figure out it's better to just wait him out.

It takes at least half of the evening: O'Reily goes through his nightly ritual early, then apparently remakes his bunk, then finally retires up there, lying mute and unmoving with an arm over his eyes. Miguel eventually goes to his own and sprawls on the crappy thing with his arms folded under his head, staring unseeingly at the springs under O'Reily's mattress.

Then: "She kissed me," O'Reily quietly admits, out of the blue, after Miguel's all but resigned himself to the silence, "the day Cyril... _when_ he was..." There's a sharp, slightly choked breath. " _I felt absolutely nothing_ ," O'Reily rushes out, sounding _wrecked_.

And, just, **_fuck_**. Miguel may never have understood O'Reily's screwed-up obsession with their pretty doc, but he can definitely see how _that_ would kill everything: a kiss from the woman he's chased after for years—and damned his brother to this place for— _at the expense of his brother's life?_ That's a price too fucking high to pay _for anyone_.

(Even worse—so much worse—than a hack's eyes for a vague, unimportant sense of acceptance—that Miguel didn't even get anyway.)

On the other hand, that's the kind statement that also begs the question of: _Did you feel something with me?_ But yeah, Miguel's just going to voluntarily be a coward here.

Besides, he thinks he already has the answer: those tear-tracks? They could have been fucking anything. Nightmares about his brother. This place. _His fucking father_ (because it doesn't take a fucking genius there either, to guess O'Reily cannot have had a happy childhood—hell, by comparison, _Miguel_ 's own childhood probably looks like sunshine and fucking daisies). They weren't necessarily because of what Miguel had done to him (what Miguel _took_ from him, and _forced him to feel_ ).

Not when he's here now, sharing a pod with Miguel, having gone out of his way to keep Miguel close and sane (as much as Miguel can be), having given him smiles and company and his bony shoulder to rest on, even in here (and even _fried fucking chicken nuggets_ for him). Not if he's this torn up about kissing someone he'd thought he loved, and somehow feeling the need to justify himself about it _to Miguel_.

But just in case, Miguel's gonna go with _Wait and see_ over this, too.

"So not saying hi from you then," he says gently, getting up and stepping close, planting one elbow on O'Reily's bunk near his head and smoothly (but cautiously) starting a soft circular rubbing on O'Reily's stomach with his other hand, only wanting to comfort.

"No," O'Reily answers, with a sad, wry grimacing grin, "you know? Don't even mention me." He's peering at Miguel from under his arm—and there's gratefulness in his eyes this time too.

"Okay," Miguel breathes out.

There's a bit of silence, as O'Reily just stare at him and Miguel traces little circles on his shirt, unthinkingly, just trying to soothe.

"There's room for you up there," O'Reily says, so soft it's nearly a whisper, looking back at Miguel with something that's both tentative and kind of intense, "if you wanna look at more forest pictures before lights out."

Which means loosing this easy, quiet intimacy, but perhaps putting more light back in O'Reily's eyes: "Sure," Miguel answers, not needing to think about it twice, and he promptly misses the touch, having to remove his hand as O'Reily sits up—but gaining a little smile in exchange.

He happily grins back, as he climbs up to take his place at O'Reily's shoulder, while O'Reily fishes the magazine from under his pillow.

* * *

For all that Miguel's fucking panicked about having to exist in the same space as Torquemada again (small or big, even without being locked in with just him), the reality of it is perhaps very anticlimactic: if the first evening, Miguel hasn't seen him at all, too busy looking for O'Reily, in the morning, he forces himself to look over. With his best fuck-with-me-and-die glare.

The freak is so weirdly subdued Miguel's not even sure he _notices_.

Maybe, displaced wherever the fuck he and the rest have been, he's finally figured out what prison is really like, when you've got nothing to buy—and swoop down on—people with. Who knows.

And who _cares_ : certainly not Miguel. That's not his fucking problem. In fact, as far as he's concerned, it's the fucking opposite of one. Not that he's going to fucking rejoice about it or something—but he just wants this creep to fucking leave him alone, and he doesn't give a fuck how that happens, just as long as it does.

O'Reily's most likely right—he generally is: Miguel's far from the only one Torquemada's used like a toy. Whether or not his handling of the others had been as...sexual...probably matters very little, all things considered, with how much everyone value their pride in here.

Miguel's not going to fucking underestimate him again, though. Or fucking try to forget himself, not fucking ever again. He's got his eyes opened and O'Reily at his back: _Wait and see_ , that's his new motto.

* * *

True to McManus's word, after breakfast, there is another reorganization: yet a new routine, though the only changes that affect either of them are Miguel's shorter, back-to-normal shifts lengths (thankfully different from Torquemada's), and Seamus O'Reily's new affectation to the mailroom.

Miguel makes the fucking mistake of relaxing, a little, that O'Reily is finally going to be a bit more free from his glaring father.

* * *

On day four of them living in the same small space again (day three of the rest of Em-city being back), in the morning, at count, there's a bruise bloomed on O'Reily's face.

The size of a fist.

Miguel didn't see him clearly, the night before, not this side. O'Reily, he realizes now, staring at the bruise with something dangerous and deadly growing hotter in his chest, kept himself carefully turned just-slightly away from him the whole evening, almost aloof, going to sleep early. Miguel gave him space—thinking that's what O'Reily needed, to work through whatever it was that had him so quiet this time. It had worked, barely two days before.

But this is _very much_ not the same. This is very much something Miguel can _not_ ignore.

" _Who the fuck hit you?_ " he asks, following him back into their pod—sounding angry even to his own ears.

O'Reily freezes from where he's been hurriedly putting on his kitchen uniform, back to Miguel, just for a few seconds before he lets his shirt drop—covering the skin Miguel's been furiously inspecting. (The fact that he hasn't seen more bruises doesn't mean there isn't some. Or _hasn't been_ some.)

"No one," O'Reily answers, turning back around and making for the door without looking him in the eyes, "don't worry about it."

Miguel grabs his arm, whirling him back to face him. O'Reily's eyes are more grey than anything, very wide, fucking reddened and slightly wet, like maybe he's spent most of the fucking night silently, secretly crying up on his bunk.

"I walked into a fucking door, okay, Alvarez?" O'Reily half-snarls, breaking Miguel's hold on him and stumbling back.

It'd be more convincing if his voice hadn't cracked a little halfway through.

And his eyes, in the second he stares back at Miguel (standing there all fucking useless in the middle of their pod), before he wipes them with a palm and all but runs out, tell a different story entirely.

Or maybe not _entirely_ : Miguel has the horrible feeling that this is the kind of automatic response O'Reily must have had ingrained into him a very, very long time ago. With fists. Angry adult fists, over pale child skin and small child bones: after all, there is only one man in here, that O'Reily would try to cover up a beating from.

And Miguel? Miguel may have done his best to go with the tide—but he's not waiting for _this_ to fucking get better on its own.

* * *

It's not easy, to corner O'Reily's father alone: the old fuck is slippery, and smart enough to stick to crowds.

Well, most of the time: Miguel manages it two days later, hiding in an unused private room he's picked the lock of, along the old man's mail-delivering route to the infirmary (that Miguel's diligently spied on, and mentally mapped out, the day before).

He steps right into his path, blocking the corridor with a wary "Hey, O'Reily," and promptly has to grab the mail cart when the guy first tries to dodge him, then tries to fucking ram him down with it.

"Stop fucking panicking, old man," Miguel brusquely tells him, trying to keep calm himself, "I'm not here to fucking off you, I just wanna talk."

"I don't talk to spics," the old fuck growls.

" _About your son_ ," Miguel growls right back.

That doesn't get him anywhere, either: "I'm not fucking responsible of him. If he pissed you off, that's _his_ problem."

Charming. And _fine_ , time to fucking stop trying to be subtle. "You know that's not what I mean," Miguel hisses.

The old man narrows his eyes at him.

"That fucking bruise on his face?" Miguel continues, in the same tone, "You're gonna tell me you're not the one that put it there? He's trying his best to do right by you, and this is how you thank him?"

"He's _my son_ ," the old man says, and it's fucking possessive in a way it shouldn't be, "I treat him how I see fit."

"He's _your son_ ," Miguel repeats, and even _he_ 's aware it could not sound more different, "your only son still alive," he insists heavily, trying to clearly impact how much that should fucking matter, " _not your fucking property_. He doesn't belong to you, and he doesn't fucking exist to serve your fucking needs or take any of your fucking crap."

"He's an _ungrateful_ little shit, that's what he is!" the old fuck finally explodes. "And apparently," he adds, throwing Miguel a look that's nothing but pure hateful disgust, "a fucking _fag_ to boot. Bending over for a fucking _spic_ no less! I should have fucking _drowned him at birth_."

Miguel grabs him by the throat. Swiftly, over the cart, without even thinking about it. He's so pissed all he wants to do is shake this fucker until his teeth rattle, and then fucking shake him some more: this bullshit, right there, it explains so much about O'Reily it's not even fucking funny. And Miguel not only fucking _cares_ about him—he's lost a son himself. How anyone can be _like this_ about their own flesh and blood, he'll never know.

The old man of course tries to throw him off, but he's, well, _an old man_ , and Miguel is _not_ : all his bucking and attempts to punch Miguel or pry him off are completely fucking useless.

Miguel lets him panic, and exhaust himself, ignoring the avalanche of stifled insults, unblinking. Letting him, perhaps, see himself dying: he's got no intentions of going that far—not right now, not if he can help it, and not unless he has no other choices—because this is still _O'Reily's father_. But if the old fuck sees death in his eyes, and that can fucking make him behave somehow—make him treat his son like he fucking _should?_ Miguel'll take it. He'll take anything that keeps O'Reily safe, _and_ with light in his fucking eyes.

"— _fuck you_ ," the old man is breathlessly vociferating, ineffectually clawing at Miguel's hand, " _you fucking spic—fucking fags—_ "

Miguel tightens his grip in warning, and the struggles weaken, slightly, with a whole slew of half-strangled curses that finally peter out into resentful, panting silence. "You hit him again," Miguel says at last, low and deadly, " _I'll kill you_."

Then he lets go, throwing the old man backwards, and impassively watches him collapse on the floor like an ugly, rage-filled, red-faced marionette, wildly gasping for air.

Miguel doesn't wait for him to start on his hateful bullshit again, and goes back to his shift. For better or for worse, O'Reily's fucking father or no, he _means_ that threat.

* * *

"My father told me you threatened him," O'Reily tells him, that very night, as soon as they're locked in together. His tone is mild and guarded, his eyes searching. "In fact, he said you attacked him."

Part of Miguel thinks he should probably be worried. He's strangely not. "What would you do," he asks calmly, maintaining eye contact, face open for all that O'Reily may wish to dig for and find, "if I tell you I did?"

There's a pause. O'Reily doesn't blink, lips slightly parted, expression hard to read. Miguel just leans back against the small desk, not looking away, letting him have whatever he's searching for.

"I'd ask you _why_ ," O'Reily says simply.

Slowly, cautiously, Miguel stands back up, and takes a step toward him, then another, and half of one. O'Reily just watches him approach, and Miguel does his best to keep everything slow and easy, unthreatening, as he unhurriedly raises a hand, and very, very gently brushes his fingertips against O'Reily's bruised jaw.

A ghost of a touch, really, soft and probably way too tender.

" _This_ is why," he answers—a steady, perhaps way too intimate, or way too honest, whisper.

Something _breaks_ in O'Reily's eyes. Shimmering, before he closes them tight. "I just," he murmurs, after a few uneven breaths, almost completely inaudible, "I don't want to be alone."

"You're not alone," Miguel immediately soothes, not even hesitating as he gathers O'Reily's slowly-crumbling tall lean frame against his own steady one. Holding him tight, feeling O'Reily's fingers clutch at the back of his shirt, O'Reily's breath hitch against his neck. "You hear me? You've got _me_ , you're not alone."

And he rocks them gently, whispering quiet, reassuring, soft little nonsense in O'Reily's closest ear, until O'Reily stops fucking shuddering in his arms.

Until, eventually, they end up lying close on Miguel's bunk, fully clothed on top on the covers, O'Reily's face tucked into the curve of Miguel's neck.

Where O'Reily stays the whole night, clinging to Miguel—before and in his sleep.

* * *

"I saw Sister Pete earlier," O'Reily announces as the lock clicks behind them, on their eighth day together, "she saw my Ma—said she'll be continuing her community service here after everyone else is back, and she's gonna visit as soon as she can, maybe even next week if Pete succeeds in convincing Querns like she's trying to."

"Thats's good," Miguel answers, grinning and dropping on his bunk with a little bounce, always happy to see him high-spirited.

"Here," O'Reily says, and he pulls a chocolate bar out of his pants, "my Ma got me this."

And he sits down next to Miguel, opens it, breaks off the first row, and breaks that in half, between the two of them, offering two joined squares to Miguel. It's milk with caramel filling and chunks of hazelnuts, and sticks to his fingers, warmed by his skin. And possibly the skin of his stomach, depending on how long he's had it in there.

For a second, Miguel seriously contemplates eating it straight off his fingers. He actually _wants_ to do it like that: he's got a touch-memory to get rid of, and maybe if he can't erase it, he can write over it.

But O'Reily? O'Reily probably doesn't want his fingers licked. And that fucking _matters_ —far more than what Miguel wants for himself.

So he takes the chocolate with his hand instead (brushing fingertips with O'Reily), and nearly fucking moans at the taste: he can't even _remember_ the last time he had something this delicious.

" _Yeah_ , uh?" O'Reily laughs next to him, licking his own fingers clean—really, genuinely laughs, looking fucking beautiful, even with that slowly-fading bruise still on his face. "My god, it's like fucking heaven. We're gonna make ourselves sick eating the whole thing, but it'll be fucking worth it."

Miguel could fucking kiss him. For sharing, sure, so amazingly naturally, but mostly for being so _lively_. Right here. Just for him.

But he's waiting and seeing, and all that jazz.

Which is not even fucking difficult, what with getting to watch O'Reily like this.

"Your Mama has _really_ great taste," he enthusiastically, teasingly agrees (except for her taste in men, obviously, but Miguel can't complain: O'Reily wouldn't exist, otherwise, and Miguel's really fucking glad he does), "when'd'you say she's coming over again?" he grins, "I hope she brings you more of this shit."

And O'Reily kisses him.

As far as kisses go, it's nothing, really: just a warm press of lips, not even opened. But O'Reily's eyes have closed, _peacefully_ , and they are very, very green when he opens them again as he pulls back. And it's the first kiss O'Reily's ever initiated between them—and actually, probably even the first touch, besides that time he gently took Miguel's wrist and quietly anchored them together.

It's also the sweetest fucking kiss Miguel's ever had _in his life_ —and it has nothing to do with the damn chocolate. It does warm things to his heart.

Very welcomed warm things.

* * *

Miguel's still floating on a little drug-less cloud that's entirely O'Reily's doing the next day (day nine of their living together, day two of them _actually_ being so—nevermind that thinking about it like that makes Miguel feel like a fucking teenager), as he leaves the infirmary to go to dinner.

(All they've done so far—besides that time in the little padded room—is kiss, but Miguel's very happy with even just that: there's no fucking words for how fucking _good_ it feels, to kiss O'Reily. Miguel could happily get lost in that hot, talented—and _amazingly sweet_ —mouth for all eternity. He's still waiting and seeing, though—but now, he's _hoping_ , too.)

Which is why it's not until he's halfway to the cafeteria that it occurs to him he's alone, nobody within seeing or hearing distance at all, and the guards _ominously_ absent.

Sure, they don't usually zealously escort inmates for such routine trips—even in the current not-quite-back-to-normal circumstances, but there really should be one or two around, somewhere in this corridor.

He slows down. In Oz, this kind of deserted silence is never a good thing.

There's a ninety-degrees left turn up ahead in the corridor, a tiny broom closet after it, on the left side, and to the right an emergency staircase that would lead down and out if the ground floor's double-doors weren't permanently locked tight (the doors on the level Miguel is on probably should be, too, but he's never found them so, and he's long suspected the hacks of using that space to sneak in smoke breaks: its one redeeming feature is that the security window can be opened a tiny crack, allowing in fresh air, and sometimes even raindrops, through the metal grille, which is the main reason why anyone, Miguel included, ducks in there). Any of those could be used as an ambushing spot.

But the double-doors are heavy, and would take away the element of surprise. The closet is fucking tiny, would require waiting in an uncomfortable slightly-bent position, and can't be opened from the inside, making it fucking useless as a hiding spot, since the door would have to be left opened enough to get out, or whichever idiot tried to lie in wait there could just get stuck inside. Well, unless they had tape to make sure the thing didn't lock on them, Miguel supposes. Then it'd just be a matter of slamming out at the right moment, which is less awkward than trying to sneakily pull open a heavy door—unless there's multiple attackers involved.

Whatever. The turn in the corridor is first, anyway.

If he was going to ambush someone there, he'd wait right at the inside of it, where no one could see him until they were directly on him. It's not sophisticated, but it doesn't need to be, if you're fast and good with a shank. (Or a scalpel.)

Better paranoid than sorry, right? If there's no one there (or in the other two spots—maybe the hacks _are_ just smoking in the staircase), he's gonna feel stupid, but that's fucking preferable over ending up dead. And his instincts have never led him wrong, when he was fucking listening to them.

So he walks cautiously, keeping close to the wall—but without brushing against it, so the only sound is his footsteps. Regular slow walk, normal, like he's unwary and unaware, just a guy going to dinner.

The lights are no help: they cast long shadows, but there's one right at the turn, cancelling any indications of anybody on either side. If someone's there, he can't see them. On the plus side, they can't see him either.

Only hear him—the faint sound of his sneakers on concrete. Just before the wall angles on itself, he stops, silently flattening himself against it, muscles coiled tight. Ready. And he waits.

(If he's just being paranoid, he's _really_ going to feel like an idiot.)

But he waits. And waits.

And someone fucking peeks over the wall.

White guy, kind of short, forty-ish, messy-looking. Maybe-brown hair, scruffy sort-of-beard. Miguel's _maybe_ seen him before, but he wouldn't bet on it. A new fish, possibly, or at least one relatively so.

All he _really_ sees, though, is the widening of pale eyes as the guy spots Miguel there, and the shank said guy's clutching in his hand: Miguel grabs that wrist first, twists, and unbalances him. There's a yelp and a thud as he hits the opposite wall, and Miguel simply plucks the shank from his slackened grip, yanks him around, and slams him back against the next spot of wall, just left of the outside corner, with a hand around his throat and the guy's own shank pointed threateningly at him.

The shank that obviously meant to take Miguel's life. However inept that attempt was.

At some point, not that long ago, before he'd gotten all tangled up with O'Reily, Miguel might have actually welcomed it. Welcomed the spray of his lifeblood: oblivion, and _getting out_ , finally.

But yeah. _No._ Not anymore.

Because now, it doesn't matter if he never gets out: he's got someone in here to fucking live for.

"Who sent you?" he asks. He's laser-focused now, yet very much alert: the whole area is still silent except for them, and he'd see any movement from ahead in the corridor within the peripheral vision of his left eye. The last time he came even close to this sort of deadly, clean-and-sober hyper-awareness, it had been hampered by desperation, and he'd killed two of his old hermanos. But he's calm now. Steady.

The guy looks _terrified_. "O'Reily!" he bursts out, visibly panicking, "O'Reily, man, O'Reily paid me to off you, s'the truth, I swear, I got no beef with you, man—"

The world _tilts_ , a little. Miguel tightens his grip instinctively. And: " _Which_ O'Reily?" he demands—but he _knows_.

"There's more than one?" the guy chokes out, looking frantic now. "Old dude, grey hair, unshaven, very angry—he's in Unit B!"

 _Yeah_. Of fucking course. Miguel should have fucking seen this coming, really.

The guy's still running his mouth, somehow: "He pointed you out in the cafeteria—said he's in charge of the mailroom and could get through whatever I wanted and I need tits, man, they took what I had on me at Lardner's and I've got fuck-all left here and no one _has_ anything, man, I'm sorry, I got no beef with you, I'm sorry—"

Miguel lets go of him, abruptly, and he collapses like a broken puppet, gasping for breath, trying to push himself away backward and choking on his own pleading excuses.

A few years ago, Miguel would probably have killed him (or at least severely marked him): it'd have been a matter of gang (and personal) pride—plus the simple cold logic of not leaving loose ends that could come back for him later.

But he's changed. And this guy's nothing, anyway.

"Tell _O'Reily_ ," he hisses lowly, dangerously, "that thing I fucking told him? _It still fucking stands._ And make sure I never fucking see you again."

He leaves his would-be killer messily stuttering affirmatives on the floor, and starts toward the cafeteria again, tucking the shank into his waistband. He's got his own Irishman to find.

And he's going to fucking call him _Ryan_ from now on.


End file.
